The day had finally come. After 18 months of pretrial supervision (which consisted of weekly drug tests and telephone check-ins, and being restricted to the five boroughs of NYC), after 18 months being with Lisa, after 18 months of fear wondering how much time I would actually do (and more importantly, where), the day had come for me to report to the Intensive Confinement Center, aka boot camp.
The name Intensive Confinement Center (ICC) sounds a lot worse though, doesn't it? Sounds like some 24/7 isolation lol but it's basically boot camp.
Lisa and I were to take a train down to Harrisburg, PA and there would be a car service waiting to drive us to Lewisburg, PA, an hour away.
I would be gone for six months, longest stretch that Lisa and I would be separated for. Ever since we met, we saw each other every day, and we both knew this was going to be a difficult adjustment.
Our last night together, Lisa was in tears. I'm not one to cry much, and I tried to stay strong enough for the both of us, to be her rock that she could lean on.
From the moment I met Lisa, I told her I was going to jail. I also told her I didn't expect her to wait for me. At the time I was facing up to five years, and she adamantly refused to break up, even when facing five years. I understood that she didn't realize how long five years were, so I let it go.
So looking at six months, given her conviction that she would have even waited five years (she claimed she had no doubt in her mind lol), she reiterated she would wait these six months as well.
We kissed and cuddled, wiping away her tears, soothing her with comforting words, it was both the happiest and saddest moment possible. We didn't sleep much. I also didn't have anything to pack. Weirdly, even the last night of freedom, it didn't quite hit home that I was going to be locked up. Probably because I had no way of relating to what I was about to experience. It was probably plain ol' denial.
We agreed to write to each other every single day, and when mail doesn't go out on weekends or holidays, we would keep writing and just combine them into one. If I were to list all the mushy stuff we did and agreed to continue doing despite our separation, you'd probably gag on your monitor just to stop reading, so I'll spare you a few Bounty sheets.
Dawn came, but unlike most fictions, dawn doesn't always bring comfort. This was the dawn I never wanted to see. Given that this was our last day together for six months, I would have thought we'd be more talkative, to make the most of it, but in retrospect it's obviously unrealistic.
Both the train and car ride were fairly silent. We spoke here and there but our hearts just weren't into it. Too preoccupied, we just hugged some more and Lisa cuddled into my arms.
We got to Lewisburg, a prison complex consisting of three facilities: ICC, the camp, and the penitentiary. The penitentiary is obviously a supermax, the camp is the lowest possible security level you can have (except for the ICC), and they don't even have a fence keeping the inmates in.
But any walk-off is considered armed escape with a five year sentence. Not many dared to.
Our car parked in front of the ICC, and Lisa burst into tears.
"Excuse me," I asked the driver. "Do you mind waiting a few minutes?"
"No problem. Take your time, I'm in no rush."
I thought I heard sympathy in his voice. "Thanks."
We got out to smoke a last cigarette together and say bye.
Three pulls in, I hear:
"Hey! HEY! Where do you think you are? Put that out and get in here!"
It was a Correctional Officer.
"I'm not scheduled to report before another 45 minutes," I replied politely.
"I don't care, you're here, you're in, there's no standing around here."
Goddammit. I had a problem with authority, and this was already a bad start. If I had known, I wouldn't have told the driver to park here so I'd have some more time with Lisa.
"But..."
"Get in here now!"
Flicking away my cigarette, I took one long last look at Lisa's tear-strewn face, hugged her, and my heart dropped to my stomach. This was it. This was really it. What the fuck.
With a sigh, I reluctantly let her go and finally shed a couple tears.
"I love you bebe."
"I love you too bebe."
And we both "tingled." Don't ask.
I turned around and walked into the Intensive Confinement Center.
First things first. They shaved my head. Wait, no. First things first, they yelled at me. Then they shaved my head. Then they yelled at me some more. And then other inmates whispered to me:
"Don't step on the black tiles."
"Why not?"
"Just don't."
Ugh, this was going to be a long six months...
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That's a heartbreaking story.
ReplyDeleteThis is a funny story, but so true. I was an inmate at the ICC back in 1995 and it was a life changing experience that I needed to maintain a good and righteous life. I was lucky enough to make it through the 8 months that I was there. My team started out at 86 inmates and we graduated with 42. It was tough, but I made it and managed to make it out as team captain of my platoon.
ReplyDeleteI was there in 1991, one of the first classes. It worked. It was my only offense. I came out and took whatever job that I could find and was always grateful for it. I have my own company now and will pay taxes on over 300K this year. .
ReplyDeleteBrowsing the web for the ICC and ran into this post. I was there in 1993. At 32 years old I was at the age limit for admission to the program. I was sentenced for less than 36 months which allowed me into the program. No traumatic event for me. I was ready to get this past me. Worked out for one solid year prior to my entry and was in the best shape of my life. Wasn't sure I was getting in but prepared either way. Met some great friends in there as well as some pesky mouthy young kids. Initially they did the head shave scream and yell thing but being older, I did not get near the grief of the other inmates. I was placed in the Bravo team with Mr. Lopez, a great guy. My biggest inconvenience during the whole process was having to listen to the young guys and their mouths. There was no fighting there or else you were thrown from the program and into at least an FCI to finish your time. In for a narcotics trafficking conspiracy conviction, I was a little more polished than some of the others in there. I was never a user and was in it for the $$$. Heard some great stories from the pot growers, they were really laid back guys and also in the older age group. Never could understand the crying that took place amongst some of the guys mainly because this place was a joke compared to spending the majority of your sentence in a camp or FCI. Once you finished the program, you were allowed to return to your local town/home and spend the rest of your time at a halfway house or home confinement if you were a good boy. It's been a long time that has passed and I am still in touch with a handful of the guys from that experience. I have not been busted again since that time. From what I understand, the program failed and was not continued after too many people were repeat offenders and were not deterred by the experience which was it's original purpose. Mr. Jucino (spelling) was a good guy. He ran the whole show. Bottom line it was a life experience that seems so far in the past now
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